


Good to You

by SymphonySoldier97



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, bigbrother!Dean, sick!Sam, teeth-rotting sweetness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:40:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4011400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SymphonySoldier97/pseuds/SymphonySoldier97
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"“Dean,” He cries. “Make it stop.”He knows it’s ridiculous. Knows that Dean isn’t the omnipotent force of nature he seemed to be when Sam was a kid. But some part of him- the irrational, uncontrollably dependent part, and the part that’s more than a little delirious from the fever- still believes it. Maybe if he asks, if he tells him that he needs help, Dean can do it."- Dean taking care of Sick!Sammy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good to You

**Author's Note:**

> Just some fluff written in lieu of one of my last papers for high school. Title from Marianas Trench's Good to You

“Dean…” It comes out pathetic and whiny, but Sam can’t bring himself to care. He feels like shit.

“I know, baby boy, I know.” Dean soothes, his palm drawing circles on his brother’s back. “It’s gonna pass.” 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Sam is throwing up again. Dean hasn’t seen the kid this sick in years- maybe even a decade. Although, he can’t say for  
sure what happened while Sam was at school. As he wets a washcloth to wipe Sam’s face with, he wonders if the vomiting is from being sick or from the nightmares. He hopes it’s just the flu. 

He takes a knee next to his baby brother and cleans the sweat from his forehead with the washcloth. “Deep breaths, Sammy.” 

Sam tries, but it just falls into a sob instead. “Dean,” He cries. “Make it stop.”He knows it’s ridiculous. Knows that Dean isn’t the omnipotent force of nature he seemed to be when Sam was a kid. But some part of him- the irrational, uncontrollably dependent part, and the part that’s more than a little delirious from the fever- still believes it. Maybe if he asks, if he tells him that he needs help, Dean can do it. “Please.”

Dean’s heart clenches painfully in his chest. He can’t stand to see Sam hurt. Especially when he can’t do a thing to alleviate it. “I wish I could, sweetheart. Y’know I would if I could.” 

He’ll deny all the endearments in the morning, but right now it makes them both feel better to hear them. Chick flick moments are okay as long as there are no witnesses. 

“Hurts.” Sam whimpers. 

Dean settles against the bathroom wall and gently pulls his brother back against his chest. “Yeah.” He acknowledges, brushing Sam’s hair away from his face. “We’re just gonna camp out here for a little bit. Okay?” 

“O-okay.” 

“Gonna feel better soon.” He promises. “Trust me.” 

It occurs to Dean that this is the kind of thing brothers usually tease each other about- Sam’s whimpering tone, Dean’s excessively sugary words- but he can’t bring himself to find it funny. He lost his brother for years, and now he’s here. He’s broken, but he’s here and he needs Dean and as ashamed as Dean is to crave his little brother’s dependence, he’s also man enough to admit it to himself. It’s been a long time since anyone really needed him. 

God, he obviously needs some sleep or whiskey or something. He sounds like some emotionally damaged mother with empty-nest syndrome. Oh well, he thinks, he’s just doing his job- taking care of Sammy. Who, by now, is sleeping, pillowed on Dean’s chest. Dean relaxes, hoping Sam is too exhausted to have nightmares tonight. Now, he just has to figure out how to get Sam to bed without waking him and disrupting his volatile gastric system. 

“C’mon, you huge moose.” He stands carefully, palm cupping the nape of Sam’s neck, guiding his head so it lands gently against the wall. He’s sure this is gonna end very badly, but he can’t, in all good conscience, leave his brother on the floor of this nasty-ass motel bathroom. Not when he’s so sick. 

He crouches beside Sam, working one arm under his knees and the other under his shoulders, hefting the weight experimentally. This is gonna suck. Especially when his back catches up in the morning. He goes in for the kill, barely able to stand under Sam’s weight. “Shit!” What has he been feeding the little punk?  
He staggers out of the bathroom, trying to keep his grunts quiet and gently let Sam down on the bed. What ends up happening is more of a graceless dumping of Sam onto the questionable motel comforter. Dean freezes, waiting for Sam to wake up and vomit all over him, but all he does is give a displeased little snort and turn his head into the pillow. 

Dean sighs in relief, cursing under his breath and pawing at the back of his neck. Worst idea ever. But at least Sam’s in bed. Dean retrieves the cool washcloth from the bathroom and places it on his brother’s forehead. His fever isn’t very high so far, but that doesn’t mean it won’t skyrocket during the night. Looks like they’re in it for the long haul. 

Dean takes the socks off Sam’s feet, only hesitating for a second before pulling off the sweatpants, too. The fewer clothes he has on, the less chance for his temperature to get too high. Normally, the sight of a half-naked Sam is enough to get Dean’s engine revving, but tonight it just makes him sad. Watching Sam shiver and sweat in a bad way, he wishes he could take the pain away, and not being able to seriously fucks with his big brother instincts. 

He drags the rickety chair from the tiny formica table and places it next to Sam’s bed, settling in it with Sam’s iPod and his phone. He’s too concerned by the flush on his brother’s face to fall asleep. He might be aware that sitting awake all night staring at him is not going to make him better any faster, but it isn’t about to stop him from doing just that. 

He calls his dad, leaves him another message. Tells him Sammy is sick, but they’re still looking for him, and Dad, it would be awesome if you could just call us back and let us know you’re okay. He calls Bobby, updates him, and relaxes under the gruff “Hang in there, boy. Call me if you need somethin’.” He earns for his trouble. After that, he checks Sam’s temperature with a kiss that he’ll never breathe a word to anyone about. He blames the sentimentality on the late night and severe lack of liquor. He’ll file the hold he has on Sam’s hand in the same category as he lets himself drift a little bit. 

In the morning, Sam is still asleep, so Dean leaves a short note on the pillow and heads for the drug store. Sam never reads it, since he’s still out when Dean gets back with some crackers and ginger ale. He hates to, but he has to shake Sam awake to give him some Pepto and coax him into downing a few crackers. “How ya doin’, kiddo?”

Sam stares up at him with bleary eyes. “M’tired. And I wanna die.” 

“Great!” Dean replies cheerfully. 

“I hate you.” Sam claims, but Dean just grins at him. 

“Gonna go back to sleep?” 

“Yeah.” Sam yawns, catching Dean’s hand when he starts to move away from the bed. He cracks an eye open. “Stay?” 

He looks so small and miserable that Dean can’t say no. Which, is not really a surprise. He can rarely manage to say no to Sam on any normal day. “Yeah, all right, you big baby. Scoot.”

Sam obediently folds his limbs up closer to his body as Dean settles on the other side of the bed. “Kiss me?” 

Even those big, hopeful, watery eyes can’t make it happen. “Dude, no. I’m not gonna spend the weekend worshipping the porcelain god.” 

Sam pouts, but snuggles himself up under Dean’s chest anyway. “Fine.” 

“Later.” Dean promises. 

“You can bet your ass.” 

Dean’s exhaustion starts to take the wheel, and he might have imagined Sam’s murmur of “Love you, Dean.” But it doesn’t matter. He knows it anyway.


End file.
